


Oh, My Bones Are Bare

by 2kimi2furious



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AryaxGendry Week 2017, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-12-17 15:30:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11854473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2kimi2furious/pseuds/2kimi2furious
Summary: Mostly TV verse drabbles for Arya x Gendry Week 2017





	1. Day 1- Cat Got Your Tongue

He was bigger than she remembered, which was only worthy of note considering she the last time she had seen him she was much smaller. _Everyone_ seemed to tower over her when she was smaller. He was stronger too. Although he was bundled up against the biting cold of the snow, Arya could see the muscles in his arms flex as he swung his hammer mercilessly at his opponent in the yard. She was impressed; he had been training, and he had been training right.

She wondered if that was in part due to Brienne of Tarth. She had been training Podrick too, and if she could help him improve, she could help anyone. But Arya had never seen her wield anything but a sword, and Gendry swung the hammer so naturally that it seemed to be an extension of his body. It was the same way Arya had been taught to fight with her Needle.

Gendry was fighting Podrick Payne, and to Pod’s credit, he was holding his own. While his swordsmanship was not perfect, it was decent enough for him to be able to properly defend himself in battle. But Gendry was…

It seemed silly to call his blows graceful, but Arya could think of no other word to describe them. With one fell swoop, Gendry shot forward and swung towards Podricks’ feet. The other man lost his balance and was knocked prone onto his back. The men in the training yard whooped, clearly impressed by the show.

“I yield!” Podrick yelled. “Yield!”

Although he’d been fighting with all the ferocity of an angry bull seconds before, Gendry quickly dropped his hammer in order to help his opponent up. With a smile, he patted him on the shoulder, thanking him for a good match.

“You need to be quicker on your feet, Pod,” Brienne said stepping out onto the training yard proper. “Your sword has a longer reach than his hammer. You should have been able to block that. Pick up your weapons and go again.”

Podrick didn’t say anything. He never did. He just grumbled as he picked up his sword, determined to not make the same mistake in the next round. He had only just stepped into fighting stance when he noticed Arya’s face amongst those watching the sparring match.

“Lady Arya,” he said respectfully, lowering his sword.

Gendry’s head whipped around so fast it was a wonder his neck did not crack. Arya swore under her breath. This was _not_ how she wanted this reunion to happen.

Arya had tried to become No One in Braavos for three years. She had learned to hide Arya Stark under the different identities she assumed for the Many-Faced God. But underneath it all, beneath all the disguises and bloodshed, Arya Stark remained. While she slept, she dreamed of wolves, of her siblings, and of Gendry.

Until Jon had sent word to Winterfell from Eastwatch and mentioned his name, Arya was sure she would never see Gendry again. She told herself that she didn’t want to, that he had abandoned her when he chose to stay with the Brotherhood Without Banners. She had offered him a place in her pack--a _permanent_ place--and he had refused her. She told herself that she didn’t care whether he lived or died after that, and for a while she had fooled herself into believing it.

But knowing he was in Winterfell had gnawed away at her resolve. After a fortnight, she decided she could not wait any longer; she had _words_ to say to him. So she had come down to the training grounds in order to observe him. Before she confronted him, she wanted to see what sort of man he had become.

Leave it to Podrick to mess that up for her. But now that she had been exposed, she had no choice but to acknowledge him, although i was much earlier than she would have liked.

“Close your mouth, stupid” she ordered. “I thought you were supposed to be a bull, not a fish. Or is it a stag now? Either way, you might look more intelligent without your mouth hanging open like that.”

To his credit, he obeyed.

“I…” he trailed off. He was making that stupid face he always made when he was thinking. Arya had always hated that face, but to her surprise, she was discovering that she had missed it.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Did a cat grab your tongue while you were standing there gaping at me?”

She wanted to sound a little more cruel. She wanted to hurt him the way he’d hurt her. But the barb came out softer than she had intended, almost teasing rather than antagonizing.

“Arya,” he said, finally able to speak. “I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry. I shouldn’t have left you. When I heard--”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she interrupted.

“The Red Witch tried to kill me,” he said softly. “After you’d left. Ser Davos rescued me. I wanted to come find you after I’d escaped, but I heard what happened at the Twins. Arya, I thought you had died or else I would have come looking for you.”

“It would take more than Walder Frey and his brood of lack-wits to kill me,” she said. “Greater people have tried and greater people have failed.”

“How did you survive?” he asked incredulously. “You were just a girl.”

“There’s nothing written anywhere that says a girl can’t survive,” she answered, reaching for Needle at her side. With a flick of her wrist, she gave the thin sword a quick flourish. A small smile tugged at the corners of Gendry’s mouth when he saw the familiar piece of steel. Against her will, Arya found herself wanting to smile too.

“I’m more surprised that _you_ managed to survive,” she answered. “You and Hot Pie both would have died in the Kingswood without me there to make decisions for you.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said. “I had to learn.”

“So I’ve seen,” Arya said, glancing at the hammer lying on the ground. “Where’d you get that?”

Gendry bent down to pick the up his hammer and Arya watched as the muscles of his forearm tensed up. Gods, but he was _strong_.

“I made it,” he answered, a hint of pride in his voice. Arya was not going to congratulate him on that. He was a blacksmith; he should have known how to make a stupid hammer.

“But who taught you to use it?”

“No one,” he answered. Arya grinned in spite of herself, although Gendry could not begin to guess the reason why.

“No One must be a decent teacher, then,” she said. With another flourish of Needle, Arya slipped into her water dancer’s stance. “Shall we see just how decent?”

Gendry shot an incomprehensible glance toward Brienne and Podrick. The lady clenched her jaw in worry. Podrick just shrugged.

“Lady Arya,” Brienne said. “Ser Gendry is not prepared…”

“He is prepared enough,” Arya said, never taking her eyes off of Gendry. “I told you once when practicing for a fight, you should practice right. I want to see if you followed my advice, _ser_.”

Without giving him a chance to object, Needle shot forth, quick as a flash, ripping a small tear into his sleeve.

When Gendry realized what she had done, he faltered, taking a step back in shock.

“Come on, stupid,” Arya taunted. “You should have avoided that.”

She lunged forth again and this time Gendry heeded her words. With a surprising amount of speed for someone his size, he stepped out of the way, only narrowly missing the point of her sword.

“Good,” Arya said, smiling. She lunged forth again, this time swiping three times in quick succession. She was only toying with him, not meaning to hurt him, but still trying to keep him on his toes. To his credit, he managed to avoid all three attacks, even using his hammer to block the last one.

“Are you going to fight back?” Arya asked loudly. “Or are you just going to deflect, _ser_?”

“I wouldn’t dream of hitting milady,” Gendry said. There was a small smile tugging at his lips. The stupid bastard was enjoying this.

Arya bristled at the old nickname. She came at him more aggressively, not giving him a chance to recover between her attacks. It was then that Gendry seemed to come alive and enter the fight. He managed to counter her blows, and when he didn’t, he took the hits in stride.

She paused momentarily to ask: “You taught yourself this?”

“I did,” he answered proudly, wiping sweat off of his brow.

“Perhaps you’re not so useless after all,” she retorted. And then she lunged forward to nick at his sleeve again.

This time, Gendry let out a startled cry.

“You cut me,” he said, bringing a hand to his arm to examine the blood.

“We’re fighting,” she taunted. “Fight back.”

The smile left his face momentarily as he regarded her with a look of annoyance. When she stepped forward to begin again, she was cut off by a blow from his hammer. She avoided it, of course, but to her surprise, he swung again and still again. She lost a great deal of ground to him in a matter of seconds.

When he realized what he had done, that he had actually swung at her for real, he looked down at her with questioning eyes. He did not know if Arya had truly wanted him to fight back. She only smiled in return and that was when Gendry started to relax.

“Shall we go again?” she asked.

Gendry acquiesced.

Although his skill was a little unrefined, he fought beautifully. Gendry knew his way around the hammer, the way his father had before him. Although Arya was holding back, she did not make it easy on him. And Gendry was holding his own. He seemed to have endless stamina, although his hammer must have weighed fifty pounds at least. Steel clashed against steel, hammer pounded against ground and sword, and everyone in the training yard stopped to watch the Lady Arya fight the bastard blacksmith knight.

Finally, however, Gendry began to tire. The swings of his hammer became wild and sloppy, and Arya took advantage of it. On his last swing, she jumped away, deftly twirling into the air to land near his feet. While Gendry was regaining his balance, she shot a leg out, kicking his feet out from under him. He fell prone the way Podrick had minutes earlier and his hammer knocked the wind out of him.

The men in the training yard began to laugh, but Arya ignored them as she walked toward Gendry with Needle extended out in front of her. For a brief moment, she considered nicking him again, just to hurt him out of spite. But she could not find it in herself to do that. She was angry at him, but she had missed him truly. Their brief sparring match had dulled some of the ache she’d felt at his loss.

“That was for leaving me,” she said with finality, flicking Needle away and returning it to its scabbard. “I expect you won’t be doing it again.”

“No,” he Gendry answered. “I won’t. Not ever.”

Arya smiled in spite of herself when she heard how earnest his voice was.

“Good,” she answered. Then she turned away to speak to Brienne. Podrick rushed forward to help Gendry from up off of the ground.

“Fix his stance,” Arya instructed Brienne. “He was knocked down too easily. I don’t want to get stabbed in the back because this bullheaded bastard can be pushed over.”

The men burst into laughter again, but Brienne dutifully ignored them. There was a slight pink tinge to Gendry’s cheeks, but Arya thought he looked secretly pleased.

“Of course, my lady,” Brienne answered.

Arya turned to look at Gendry again. He looked right back at her, brazenly so for someone of his station. But Arya did not mind in the slightest. She still had some choice words to share with him and it would take a long while for him to mend the hurt he’d done to her, but today was a start. A good start.

“Keep training,” she called to him. “I won’t have you dying in battle before you get the chance to properly apologize to me.”

Gendry grinned at her.

“As milady commands,” he said.

In spite of everything, Arya smiled.


	2. Day 2- Wedding

When Jon came back from beyond The Wall, he came back with the Dragon Queen and her children. Sansa had sent Lady Brienne to King’s Landing, so Arya took over both Pod and Gendry’s training. She was on the training grounds with them both when they first heard the screech of the dragons. Arya had to grab the two men and jerk them towards the outskirts of the yard so the huge black and crimson beast wouldn’t crush them as it landed.

Arya had known about the existence of dragons. She had hidden among the skulls in King’s Landing when she was a girl. But seeing the skulls of long-dead monsters was nothing like seeing a live one up close. She was as speechless as Podrick and Gendry were, but she had the good sense to keep her jaw from hanging open like an idiot. But even she lost her composure when she saw her bastard brother slide down from the dragon’s back.

“Jon!” she cried out. And she lunged forward to run at him, not even caring that there was a dragon who could turn her into ash in a second.

He made a pained noise as Arya collided with him, but Arya didn’t care. He was her favorite brother--her  _ best _ brother--and she didn’t think she’d ever see him again.

“Arya, I’m glad to see you too,” Jon said. “But you’re hurting me.”

“I don’t care,” Arya said, hugging him fiercely. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, little sister,” he said, mussing her hair the way he used to a thousand years ago. 

Arya only let him go when she heard Sansa approach. 

“Your Grace,” she said, giving a curtsey to Jon. Arya thought that was strange; Jon might be King in the North now, but she didn’t think he was the type of person to insist on courtly behavior from his sisters.

Except, Sansa hadn’t curtsied to  _ him _ at all.

“You must be Lady Sansa,” an unfamiliar voice said warmly. Arya let her brother go and peered over his shoulder. 

The Dragon Queen was smaller than Arya expected her to be. She was hardly bigger than Arya herself; Sansa towered over her. She was dressed warmly in grey and white furs, her silvery hair pulled back into an elaborate braid that trailed down her back.

“Lord Snow has told me much about you,” she said. And then she turned toward Arya. “Which means you are the Lady Arya.”

Arya wasn’t sure how she felt about this foreign queen. She had no loyalty to the Lannisters and little love for the Robert Baratheon, but at least she knew them. She didn’t know what to make of Daenerys Targaryen. And she was meant to call him King Jon instead of Lord Snow. Arya didn’t like that at all. She gave her a long look up and down before Sansa shot her an annoyed look and Jon gave her shoulder a nudge. She decided that she would play the gallant if only or Jon’s sake.

“Your Grace,” she said, her curtsey not nearly as graceful as Sansa’s. “Forgive me. I’ve forgotten my manners.”

“There’s no need for an apology, Lady Arya,” Daenerys answered with a smile. “Jon has told me much about you too. I know how glad you must be to see each other again.”

Arya narrowed her eyes.  _ Jon? _ She hadn’t even bothered with a title this time. Arya misliked this air of familiarity, even if she was the Dragon Queen. Jon, however, noticed the look on her face and shot her a warning look. Arya dutifully kept her tongue in check.

“Thank you for bringing our brother back, your grace,” Sansa inerjected. “The North will look kindly upon you for rescuing its king.”

Arya was glad for once of Sansa’s courtesy. She reminded Daenerys that Jon was a king as much as she was a queen. And she did it without risking death by dragon fire.

“We have much to discuss,” Jon said. “Arya, Sansa, would you join Queen Daenerys and I in the solar?”

“Yes your Grace,” Sansa said. Arya let her answer for both of them.

“Podrick, Gendry,” Arya said, turning toward them. “We will continue this on the morrow.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Podrick said. Gendry just grunted and nodded his head. Stupid bull.

……………………………………………………………

Arya was in a foul mood when she kicked her way into Mikken’s forge that night. Although she supposed it was Gendry’s forge now; he was the only one using it. Mikken had no use for it in the grave.

“The door opens just as well if you use your hands,” Gendry said, not looking up from the sword he was tempering.

“He’s going to marry her,” Arya said darkly.

“Who’s marrying who now?” he asked, dipping the sword into a large bucket of water. Arya waited until the sound of the steam had dissipated before she spoke again.

“Jon,” she complained. “He’s going to marry the stupid Dragon Queen.”

Gendry set the sword aside and turned around to face her, arms crossed over his leather apron. His face was inscrutable which made Arya unreasonably angrier.

“He only just got back to Winterfell and she wants to take him off to the Red Keep,” Arya said. “He’s King in the North, so he should  _ stay _ in the north.”

“Might be they want to join houses and make both kingdoms stronger,” Gendry said.

“It will be one kingdom if they marry, stupid,” Arya spat. 

“Is that such a bad thing?” he asked. 

“The Iron Throne has never been good for the North,” Arya said. “My father, mother, and eldest brother died because of it. And my youngest brother was slaughtered by supporters of it. Now the Dragon Queen means to take Jon too.”

“She won’t kill him, though,” Gendry said gently.

“She might as well,” Arya answered. “He’ll stay in King’s Landing and he won’t come back. I’ll never see him again and I only just got him back. And then I suppose he’ll marry Sansa off to some lord or another. The only ones left will be Bran and I and Bran…”

She stopped herself short. She wasn’t sure exactly what was going on with Bran, but he wasn’t her brother anymore. Not really.

“I’m going to be alone again.”

She wanted to rage. She wanted to start throwing things around and kicking things over. She wanted to fight. She wanted to run Needle through Daenerys Targaryen’s stomach and put an end to all this. But that wasn’t going to help anyone. 

And maybe she didn’t  _ really _ want to murder Daenerys. Maybe she just wanted to stop feeling like she was losing her family all over again.  
  
“You won’t be alone,” Gendry said. “ _ I’ll _ be here anyway. Winterfell’s forge is as good as any.”

Arya shot him a look. He promised he would never leave her again when she’d first seen him in Winterfell’s training yard, but she couldn’t bring herself to entirely believe him. She’d been abandoned too many times to believe him.

“And if you don’t want to stay in Winterfell,” he continued. “It isn’t hard for a decent blacksmith to find work.”

“You would leave Jon’s service after everything he’s done for you?” Arya accused.

“If it’s what you wanted,” he said. “I like Jon, I really do, but if he is marrying the Dragon Queen and moving to King’s Landing, he won’t have use of me. There are plenty of good smithies on the Street of Steel in Flea Bottom. Probably even better ones in the Red Keep.  _ You _ on the other hand won’t have anyone to make sure your Needle stays sharp.”

“It still does its job without you there to tend to it,” she said. “I’ve managed fine all these years.”

“But one day you might not,” he answered. “And if or when that happens, I’m going to be there to help. In whatever way I can.”

Arya wasn’t entirely sure he was just talking about Needle anymore.

“I’m going to stay here,” she said with finality. “I didn’t come all the way here just to leave it again. Jon will leave if he’s stupid enough to go rule someplace else Daenerys Targaryen and Sansa might be married off, but I’m staying here. Someone has to keep Winterfell safe until my brother comes to his senses.”

“Alright,” Gendry said with a smile on his face. “I didn’t really want to have to go look for work anyway. Not out in this cold.”

“It’s only going to get colder,” Arya said. “You’d best stop complaining. Winter is coming.”  
  
“Winter is  _ here _ ,” Gendry replied as he picked up his hammer and tongs. Slowly and with purpose, he walked over to hang them up on the wall. “And so am I.”


	3. Day 3- It's Not About Me

They weren’t expecting The Wall to fall. It had stood for centuries, protecting the realms of men from the horrors Winter would bring. And with one fell swoop, it was brought down by an undead Dragon. Those that could escape made south for Winterfell as quickly as possible, but many of the brothers of the Night’s Watch were lost.

Hardly anyone at Winterfell slept anymore. Arya worked tirelessly with Brienne to make sure the men of the North were in fighting shape. Jon and Daenerys took their meals in the council room, planning strategy after strategy to face the oncoming army of the dead. Sansa negotiated daily with the lords of the Vale to assure her brother that their allies would come to their aid. Gendry kept the forges lit both day and night as he tried to incorporate dragonglass into the weapons he made.

And as diligently as everyone worked, there was still the overwhelming sense that all of this was futile. Morale was low and it was all they could do to keep the hope of victory alive.

Jon and Daenerys were in the solar surrounded by their own piecemeal small council. It was a motley crew, all bastards, exiles, and broken men. But it was the best they could hope for. Tensions were running high and no one could come up with a completely satisfying plan of action.

“This even madder than my plan to bring the wight to my sister,” Tyrion said as he downed the last of the wine in his goblet. “But I suppose it’s the best plan we’ve got.”

“It seems that the ones on horseback control the Walkers,” Jon said. “When they die, the others die too. If we focus our attacks on them, we might stand a chance.”

“You saw how many of them walkers there were,” Sandor Clegane chimed in. “How do you suppose we reach those cunts on horseback without fighting our way through the hordes?”

“The dragons,” Brienne suggested, and then she turned to Daenerys. “If Your Grace can fly above them, the leaders should be easy to spot.”

“No,” Jon said sharply. “I won’t risk another of the Queen’s dragons.”

“They aren’t yours to risk,” Daenerys answered. The loss of Viserion still cut her to the core, but she knew that in this matter there were more important things than her feelings. “We cannot hope to win this war without my children. I will not let the fear of them cost us a victory.”

Jon shot her a sympathetic look.

“What about that different one,” Arya asked, stepping out of the corner she’d been leaning in. “The one with the crown of ice atop his head?”

“The Night King?” Jon asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Do you suppose he plays be the same rules as the Others on horseback? One can only assume he created the Others. If we killed him, do you think it would take care of the whole army?”

“I can’t be sure,” Jon said. “The few times we’ve crossed paths, no one’s even gotten close to him. He keeps himself surrounded by his army and stays well out of the way.”

“But he  _ is _ there,” Arya said. “He’s not off hiding while the others fight for him. It’s just a matter of reaching him.”

“No one could even come close,” Jon said. “Except perhaps astride a dragon. But he’s proven he’s more than capable of taking one of them down.”

Arya flipped the Valyrian steel dagger out of its sheath at her side. She said nothing, as she walked around the war map, idly flipping the blade through her fingers.

“What if someone were to slip through his defenses?” Arya said. “Quiet and unseen.”

“No,” Jon said sharply. He knew where Arya was headed with this, and he would not have it.

“I could do it,” Arya said. “You know I could.”

“ _ No _ , Arya,” Jon repeated.

“It would be so simple,” she continued. “We can find a wight freshly killed. I could take the face before it rotted away. The Others would never know the difference. We could avoid all-out war entirely.”

Arya glanced around the room, reading the faces of the other members of the small council. She could tell more than a few of the others thought her suggestion might work. She smiled to herself as she surveyed them.

“The little she-wolf’s onto something,” the Hound said. “I’d much prefer that than having to go out in the snow and freeze my balls off fighting those fuckers.”

A few of the others started to murmur in assent, but it was quickly cut short by Jon abruptly standing up from his seat. His jaw was firm, his lips a thin line. It was the first time Arya had seen him angry with her.

“And what happens when he sees through your glamours, Arya?” Jon asked. “What then? What happens when he kills you and brings you back as one of them? I’ll not have your risk your life for this. You’ll march with the rest of the men and fight with them, but no more.”

“But--” Arya began, but Jon cut her off.

“I’ve heard enough,” he continued. “The queen and I will discuss our plan of action and let you all know your orders first thing in the morning before we march out. You are to follow those orders and those orders alone. Understood?”

He posed the question to the room, but his eyes never left Arya’s. She stared back at him, engaging in a silent but fierce battle of wills. In the end, however, Jon won out. She sheathed the dagger she’d been holding angrily.

“Understood, Your Grace,” she said. And before Jon could dismiss the council, she stormed out.

………………………………………………..

Gendry was taking stock of his inventory for the hundredth time, making sure no one would be unarmed the following day when they marched north. He had just finished counting the third pile of dragonglass daggers when the door to his forge burst open.

“Give me a few of those,” Arya said as she walked up to him. “Your sharpest ones.”

“Did your brother decide to march out tonight, then?” he asked. “It’s a bit late for it. Most of the men are already in their cups.”

“No,” Arya replied curtly.

“Then what do you need a dagger for?” Gendry said. “You’ll be armed tomorrow. There should be enough for everyone, and if there isn’t, I’ve got some set aside for you especially. There’s no need for them now.”

“No one will have any need of the daggers tomorrow,” Arya said. “If you just hand them to me now.”

Gendry furrowed his brow and scratched the short bristles of his black hair.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Was something decided at the small council meeting?”

“I’m going out tonight,” she explained. “I’m going to take the face of a wight and find the leader of the Others. The one they call the Night King. If he falls, they all fall. I’m going to make sure by the morning, they’re all gone.”

Gendry frowned. Something wasn’t right. Why wasn’t Jon there? Surely, he would have come to make sure Gendry outfitted his sister properly before sending her off.

“...He doesn’t know you’re doing this, does he?” Gendry finally said. “Your brother?”

Arya rifled through the pile of obsidian daggers in lieu of an answer.

“Arya,” he said. “You’re not doing this.”

“Really?” she asked, as she picked one up and tested the sharpness of the point against an ungloved finger. “Because it appears that I am.”

“I won’t let you,” Gendry said, reaching forward to take the dagger away. She stepped out of his reach before he could even get close.

“You can’t stop me,” she said, tucking the dagger into her belt. “Don’t try to fool yourself into thinking you can.”

Gendry’s frown deepened. She was right. He was stronger than her, but she was quicker. And she was far more deadly. 

“Stop thinking,” she told him. “It makes your face look stupid.”

“Don’t do this,” he said. “Please.”

“I won’t tell my brother you I got this from you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Arya said. “When I return, I’ll tell him you had no part in this.”

“It isn’t me I worry for,” he answered. “It’s you. This is madness--it’s suicide. You can’t risk your life for this.”

“Why?” she said, turning on him, suddenly furious. “If I do this and it works, countless lives will be saved. Millions, perhaps. Even yours. And if I don’t, there’s a very real chance we all die. You’ve seen them. You can carve as many of these daggers as you can out of dragonglass, but it will be for naught if we don’t manage to kill the Night King. His armies will just keep coming and coming, and there’s more of them than there are of us.”

Gendry was silent, looking at her with pleading eyes.

“We need to do whatever we can to beat them,” she continued. “Otherwise we’re asking to lose. I’m going to do what  _ I _ can. What’s my life compared to the lives of everyone in Westeros? If I should die doing this, then at least I can say I died trying.”

“I can’t let you go alone,” Gendry finally said. “If you died and I’d let you do it going off alone again, I couldn’t live with myself.”

“You could,” she replied. “And you would.”

“That might be so,” he said. “But I wouldn’t want to.”

“You’re being selfish,” she said.

“No,” he answered, grabbing his war hammer. “I’m being stupid.”

She thought for a moment that he might hit her; knock her out cold so she couldn’t leave. But then he began to gather up his furs and she realized what he was doing.

“You can’t wear faces,” she reminded him.

“Aye,” he said. “But I am quite good with this hammer. And you might have need of it if your plan goes awry.”

“You  _ are _ being stupid,” she said. “You lumber around like an aurochs. You’ll be killed immediately.”

“What’s my life compared to the lives of everyone in Westeros?” he asked. “And besides, might be I can take a few of the fuckers out while you try to make it to their leader.”

It was a stupid, horrible idea. And yet… Arya chewed on her lip.

“Take some of the dragonglass as well,” she said. “In case your hammer doesn’t do the job.”

Gendry looked mildly offended.

“My hammer  _ always _ does the job.”

Arya broke out into a grin despite everything.

“That remains to be seen,” she said, opening the forge door. The cold of the night blew in and she turned to watch him pull on his furs and gather his hammer. “Just try and keep up, won’t you?”


	4. Day 4-- Three Wishes

Growing up, Jon had always liked that Arya was different. She’d had a rebellious streak that endeared her to him and annoyed her mother. Lady Catelyn never let him forget he was baseborn, but Arya had always treated him the same as her trueborn siblings. Perhaps even better. They were kindred spirits, always outcasts among the rest of the Stark children. It had made him feel better knowing she was so headstrong and willful.

But now, Jon wished that his little sister had been more obedient.

She hadn’t shown up at breakfast that morning and when it came time to rally the troops, she was still nowhere to be found. He’d thought to question the blacksmith about her whereabouts (as she seemed to confide more in him than anyone else), but when he found Gendry’s forge empty as well, he knew exactly where she had gone and that she had taken Gendry with her.

“I thought she might have gone to him,” Jon complained to Ser Davos Seaworth as they stalked across the yard. “But I’d hoped he would have convinced her otherwise.”

“Perhaps he tried,” Davos said. “He’s a good lad, I don’t think he’d allow your sister to put herself in danger, Your Grace.”

“And yet he isn’t here,” Jon replied. “And neither is she. They’ve gone off together to fight the Night King and to their deaths.”

“Might be he ran after her,” Davos suggested, trying to stay positive. “To bring her back.”

Even as he said it, however, he remembered how quickly Gendry had agreed to leave King’s Landing to fight the wight walkers. That had been a suicide mission as well, and he’d gone right along without question.

“Or maybe he’s stupider than I thought,” he muttered.

Daenerys walked across the yard to meet the two men, dressed all in furs and leather, the silver dragon brooch gleaming at her shoulder.

“Shall we wait a bit longer?” she asked. “There’s a chance she might have succeeded and will return. Or we can send scouts ahead to find her.”

“No,” Jon said grimly. “She knew her orders and chose to deliberately disobey them. We cannot allow her actions to put the rest of our plans in jeopardy. We continue as planned and march out now. We’ve already wasted too much time. The Walkers will be on us before we know it.”

Serving as Lord Commander in the Night’s Watch had hardened him and he was skilled at making the correct decision, even though every feeling in his gut told him otherwise. It never got any easier, especially now that his sister was involved. But he knew it would be folly to put the entire battle on hold for her. She had made her decision and only she could deal with the consequences now.

…………………………………………………..

Finding the walkers had been easy enough. Luring one away from the rest of the horde had been difficult, but in the end, Arya managed it. She hurriedly skinned and prepared the face while Gendry looked on with revulsion and mild curiosity. When she was finished, she slipped it on and completed her transformation.

“Seven hells,” Gendry swore. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”

“Hush,” she croaked in the corpse’s dry voice. “You stay hidden here and I’ll return in no time. Stay on the look-out in case any other walker comes your way.”

Gendry nodded and adjusted the grip on his warhammer. Arya suspected the knuckles beneath his mittens were as white as the snow around them.

She turned to go, but Gendry reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Be careful,” he said. “And at the first sign of anything amiss, run.”

“I’ll be careful,” she told him. But she promised him nothing about running.

Gendry licked his lips nervously and looked as if he wanted to say something else. For a moment, Arya felt her stomach drop, but the moment passed as Gendry nodded again.

“Right,” he said. “Good luck then.”

And then Gendry hunkered down into the snow drift they had been hiding.

Arya ambled out in the slow gait she’d seen the walkers use. She could see the Others riding atop their horses, but the Night King was nowhere in sight. No matter. She could be patient. She would find him eventually regardless if it took hours or days.

Luckily, it did not even take that long. She’d quickened her pace enough to move along the line of the dead, but not quickly enough to draw suspicion. She passed about three Others on horseback before she spotted the Night King. Or rather, she heard him.

The dead dragon let out a loud cry as it flew over the army and there on his back was the King. Arya squinted through the snow to see him. She hadn’t realized the dragon was letting him mount it. How was she going to get to him up there?

She’d been standing in place too long. One of the walkers bumped into her, causing her to fall into the walker in front of her. The commotion attracted the eye of one of the nearby Others and he rode over to check on the cause of the disturbance. Arya swore under her breath, cursing herself for the slight mistake. She tried as best she could to get back into the head of the white walker whose face she’d stolen, to act as though her rotting body had clumsily fallen into the body of the walker next to her. She hoped it was enough for the Other to leave her be.

It stopped its horse in front of her and looked down at her with its ice blue eyes and withered frown. Arya stared back, unnerved when she realized she couldn’t read its intentions. She was beginning to think that perhaps Jon had been right. This might have been a horrible plan.

Abruptly, the Other turned its horse and galloped toward the head of the army. For a while, Arya thought she was in the clear. She had resumed walking and hadn’t been bothered by any of the walkers around her. She slowly made her way through the crowd, working her way up to the front of the marchers step by step. And then she heard the horn.

It wasn’t like any warhorn she’d heard before. It was booming, loud, and seemed to suck all of the warmth out of her body. Beneath the face she wore, her own paled. Then the flapping of giant leathery wings returned and she knew she was done for.

The dragon landed right in front of her, the walkers and Others instinctively moving out of the way so as not to be crushed. The Night King slid off the dragon and stalked towards her. He took a moment to quickly scan the eyes of those around him until he locked eyes with Arya.

She didn’t give him a moment to have the upper hand. Reaching for the Valyrian steel catspaw dagger with her left hand and the dragonglass dagger with her right, she lunged for him. He met her with his sword of ice and sparks flew.

It was the hardest fight of her life. She’d trained with the best swordsmen and assassins in the world in Braavos, but the Night King made them look like children playing with sticks and toy swords. He was quickly gaining the upper hand while his army of walkers circled around them closer and closer. Her chances of survival were rapidly decreasing and she found herself wishing she’d listened to her brother when he told her not to risk her life doing this.

But Arya was a Stark of Winterfell. She would not give up this fight. If she was going to die today, she was going to die fighting. And so with renewed effort she came at him, slashing mercilessly at any exposed piece of flesh she could find. And yet, his sword was always there to parry her thrusts. 

She was growing sluggish, her stamina dropping by the second, while the Night King seemed not to tire at all. Arya noticed her lunges were becoming weaker and that’s when she knew the fight was lost. With one final burst of strength, she yelled “For Winterfell!” and brought her daggers toward his face. Unfortunately, this was just as his sword made contact with her side.

The weapon sliced through her leathers like they were warm butter. There was a sharp pain in her side that seemed to course through her entire body and then her vision began to tunnel and grow hazy. The last thing she saw was a figure clad in furs emerge from the crowd of wights.

“Gendry,” she said weakly. And then everything was black.

…………………………………………………………………

Gendry knew something had gone wrong when he heard the horn. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. He burst out of the snowbank clutching his warhammer and running as fast as he could to meet the wight walker army.

He didn’t stop to think twice once he’d caught up with them. He tore his way through them, hammer swinging furiously as he fought to reach Arya. He only hoped he could remember what her newly stolen face looked like so he wouldn’t accidentally smash her down too.

He didn’t know how many of the wights he’d fought through when he finally saw the dragon.  _ That’s where she’ll be _ , he thought. And that’s where she was, fighting hand to hand with the Night King. He rushed forward just in time to see her crumple to the ground after a blow to her side.

“ _ No! _ ” he bellowed.

Arya had survived so much. She couldn’t die. Not now. Not like this. 

He rushed forward, his hammer colliding with the Night King’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground momentarily. The dragon screamed and let out a breath of blue flame, which Gendry avoided by dropping to the ground. After it dissipated, he stood up and swung at the King again. This time, however, he’d lost the element of surprise and his hammer shattered in his hands like it was made of glass as the Night King hit it with his sword.

But Gendry didn’t let that stop him. He was filled with a fury he’d never known until that moment. This was the monster that was destroying the world. This was the monster that had hurt Arya.

With a roar, he lunged forward, tackling the Night King and wailing on him with his fists. The wights began to attack as well, trying to pull him off of their leader. Gendry didn’t even try to shake them of. He was focused solely on taking down the Night King. He hadn’t thought to grab one of the obsidian daggers like Arya had; he didn’t stand a real chance of defeating him without dragonglass or Valyrian steel. But he could at least try.

The walkers were coming at him with blades and spears now, and yet he fought through the pain. He only saw the Night King in front of him, struggling to get out of Gendry’s grasp to grab at his sword that had been knocked away.

“You killed her!” Gendry yelled, furious tears beginning to freeze even as they welled up in his eyes. “ _ You killed her _ !”

The Night King only grinned. And then he reached his sword and brought it down to strike at Gendry. But it was Longclaw that it connected with. And then there was a burst of hot orange flame out of nowhere.

Jon and Daenerys had caught up with the wights, and just in the nick of time. Gendry thanked the Lord of Light, the Seven, and whatever other god would listen as he fell back into the snow, exhausted. He was no longer in this fight; Jon would fight now. Gendry was so tired.

But he couldn’t rest just yet. Slowly he turned himself over, crawling through the chaos of the battle to find Arya. When he found her, he reached under her chin, finding the seam of the mask so he could remove it. Her skin was paler than normal and her hair was plastered to her forehead. Her grey eyes were open and unseeing, but (against all odds)  _ alive _ .

“Please,” he begged the gods. “Let her live. Let her  _ live _ .”

He’d never wished for anything harder in his life.

Using the last of his strength, he pushed himself up on his knees and dragged her away from the fighting. She murmured something incoherent under her breath as he cradled her body to his, his hand putting pressure on her wound to prevent her from bleeding out.

“Shhh,” he hushed her. “It will be alright. Jon will defeat him and we’ll get you back to Winterfell. The maesters will fix you right up. Just hold on a little longer.”

Gendry was losing blood himself, but that didn’t matter to him. Only Arya did. If he died making sure she stayed alive… Well, that wouldn’t be such a bad death. Not at all.


	5. Day 5--Persuasion

Arya woke up five weeks later, furious. She was bandaged so tightly she could hardly move and the maester kept trying to force her to drink milk of the poppy. She was in pain and she’d lost a lot of blood, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. She had tried to tell her caretakers that, tried to tell them that she’d dealt with worse when she tried to leave Braavos, but no one listened. Sansa caught her trying to sneak out of her chambers one morning and the damned traitor pushed her back into bed and called for a maester.

She hated being in her room. She’d gleaned enough from her visitors to know that the Night King’s army had been defeated, but she could get hardly any information beyond that. She wanted to know exactly what had happened, who they’d lost, and who survived. If their numbers were low, she wanted to know if Cersei Lannister was planning to attack while they were still recovering. She wanted to know her brother and his queen’s next plans, but no one would tell her anything. She thought perhaps Jon had instructed everyone at Winterfell to withhold this information from her. Her suspicions were confirmed when she sent for Gendry. She thought that if she could persuade anyone to tell her what was going on, it would be him.

He looked almost sheepish as he walked through her chamber doors. His face also looked thinner than she’d remembered. He ambled slowly into her room, back slightly hunched over and took a seat gingerly in the chair near her bed.

“It’s good to see you awake,” he said. “You… slept for a long while.”

“It was Maester Wolkan’s doing,” she complained. “He is overly fond of Milk of the Poppy.”

“You were badly hurt,” Gendy said.

“I’ve been hurt by a blade before,” she said. “In Braavos. I had no maester there, nor any milk of the poppy and I was  _ fine _ .”

Gendry frowned, making his already too-thin face appear thinner. Arya didn’t like the look of it.

“Have you had the chance to examine your wound?” he asked.

“They change the bandages twice a day,” Arya answered. “It seems as though it may have festered. Boiling wine should have taken care of it. There was no need for all of--” she waved her hand at her sickbed-- “this.”

“You almost bled out,” he said. “You and I both. And when they finally brought us back to Winterfell, they wouldn’t tell me how bad off you were. I thought you’d died. If Lady Sansa hadn’t thought to visit me at the forge I wouldn’t have known--”

“Jon didn’t tell you?” she interrupted.

A flush creeped up to Gendry’s cheeks and he dropped his gaze.

“Your brother was not happy with me,” he said. “He wasn’t happy with you either, but I think moreso with me because I didn’t stop you. He didn’t speak to me until much later. The Queen calmed him, I think, and he allowed me to visit you. Not that you were awake to see.”

Arya had the decency to look a little ashamed of herself. She’d known Jon would be displeased with her. She hadn’t meant for Gendry to take the brunt of that displeasure, though. She would have told Jon to be kinder to him had she been awake to do so.

“I saw your wound,” he continued soberly. “It  _ hadn’t _ festered. The edges were dead, black. The skin wouldn’t knit together. There was some dark magic in the blade that cut you. I’ve never seen steel that could do that.”

“How could that be true?” Arya asked. “I’ve got fresh, pink skin growing there. Nothing looks as if it’s been cut away.”

“I don’t know,” Gendry said. “But I saw it with my own eyes. The black was spreading too. Maester Wolkan worked day and night to cure you. You would have to ask him how he finally did it. I wasn’t told how it happened; I don’t think I’d have understood even if I had been.”

Arya bit at her lower lip as she mulled this over. She would have to ask Sansa or pester the Maester the next time he came to change her bandages. Hopefully, they would speak as easily as Gendry had.

“What of the Night King?” she asked, changing the subject.

“He’s dead,” Gendry replied. “So are his armies. The armies of Winterfell and the Vale came, along with Queen Daenerys and her dragons. They say even the queen’s brother was there. The Kingslayer, not the Imp--although I didn’t see him myself. I didn’t see much, to tell the truth. I only know what I’ve been told.”

“It’s more than I’ve been told,” she said. “I don’t think my brother wants me to know what happened.”

“He was afraid you might do something rash,” Gendry replied. And then he raised a corner of his mouth into a shy smirk. “I don’t know where he got that idea.”

“Shut up,” Arya said weakly. “Tell me what you’ve heard.”

“You remember Beric Dondarrion?” Gendry asked.

Of course she did. Beric and his men had stolen Gendry away from her. She wasn’t likely to forget that for a very long while.

“His sword does that trick where it goes all aflame,” Gendry said. “No one could do it but him. Except they say that when your brother met the Night King in battle, his blade lit up the same way and that’s what did him in. There’s talk among the men about the Red God and Jon, but your brother doesn’t seem to take stock in any of it. You were right, though. After he died, all the other wights crumbled into dust. It must have been quite a sight to see.”

Arya sat up a little, pleased that her theory was correct. She wasn’t even angry that she hadn’t been the one to deal the deathblow.

“How are the losses?” she asked.

“There were a lot of dead men,” Gendry said. “But more lived.”

“Good,” Arya said. “And Cersei?”

“Cersei?” he asked.

“Cersei Lannister,” she said, slightly annoyed. “The queen in King’s Landing? Is she planning on any retaliation? I’d heard she wasn’t pleased at Jon’s alliance with the Targaryen Queen.”

“You presume too much about your brother’s confidence in me,” Gendry said. “I’m not privy to his decisions. And if there was ever a chance of it, I’ve ruined that by running off after you into the night.”

Arya looked ashamed again.

“I’ll speak with him,” she said quietly. “I’ll tell him you tried to stop me. He should be angry with me, not with you.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he replied. “He’s not angry. Not, really. He was only worried for you. We all were.”

Arya frowned. She was going to protest, but her chamber door opened and her sister and Maester Wolkan shuffled in. Gendry stood up quickly, wincing as he did so, and nodded toward Sansa.

“Good evening, Ser Gendry,” Sansa said. “I’m glad to see you’ve been keeping my sister company.”

Gendry looked uncomfortable, but responded politely to Sansa. He did know his courtesies after all.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Sansa continued. “It’s time to change my sister’s bandages.”

“Of course, m’lady,” Gendry said, nodding. He shot a look toward Arya before excusing himself and leaving.

“How much you get out of him?” Sansa asked once the door had closed.

“More than I’ve gotten out of you,” Arya grumbled.

Sansa smiled.

“I thought you might,” she said as she sat in the chair Gendry had used. With a deft, gentle hand, she helped Arya sit up in bed and pull her shift over her head so Maester Wolkan could unbind her wound. 

Arya looked at the flesh, pink, raw, and puckered from where it was healing. She didn’t think it would heal neatly like the raised white scars from her stab wounds in Braavos. No, this one would be large and ugly, an inescapable reminder of what she’d survived.

“I think your blacksmith knight worried for you more than Jon did,” Sansa said, drawing her eyes away from the wound. “Or at least as much.”

“He’s not  _ my _ blacksmith knight,” Arya said.

“Yes he is,” Sansa countered. “And you should count yourself lucky for that. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. He saved you from blood loss and the frostbite. He was half-dead himself when you were found, you know.”

“He said he’d lost a bit of blood,” Arya replied.

“Is that so?” Sansa asked. “It’s a bit of an understatement. He looked like a stuck pig when they brought his body in. It was horrible.”

Arya remembered how hunched he looked as he walked into her room. She remembered the wince of pain on his face as he stood up to pay his respects to Sansa, and she remembered how thin his face was. She cursed herself for not noticing it quicker. The milk of the poppy had dulled her senses and frighteningly so.

“He didn’t say anything,” she said. 

“I don’t suppose he would have,” Sansa said. “He was laid up for quite a while and never once complained for himself. He only ever asked about you.”

“Stupid,” Arya grumbled, but she could feel the color rising to her cheeks.

Sansa had the good grace to stay silent as she held a bowl of ointment for Maester Wolkan to apply to Arya’s side. When that was finished, she helped bandage her sister up as quickly as she’d unbound her and helped her don her shift.

“I suppose I should thank him,” Arya finally said.

“Yes,” Sansa said, standing up. “I suppose you should.”

Arya worried at her lower lip, unsure of herself. She didn’t know what he thought of her, so wrapped up in her own misery of being locked away in her chamber that she didn’t notice his own. She didn’t know how to make up for it, how to repay him for incurring Jon’s ire, or how to thank him for saving her life. 

“Stop making that face,” Sansa teased. “You’ll think of something. You always do. Lay back and get some rest.”

And instead of arguing, for once, Arya listened.


	6. Day 6--This is Not a Drill

It took a few more weeks of recovery before Jon finally broke his silence and told her what happened the night she almost died. What Gendry had told her about Jon’s sword lighting aflame had been correct, but there was more to it than that. The flame hadn’t come from some magical nothingness; it was the work of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. 

The silver queen had flown with Jon, she atop the great black beast Drogon with Jon astride Rhaegal, up to meet the Night King’s Army while their own men marched behind them. Jon had dismounted before she did, fighting his way through the army of wights so she might not lose another of her children in this battle. He had reached Gendry and Arya just in time and fought tooth and nail with the Night King, defeating him only when his sword Longclaw had managed to catch a spark of dragon fire. After that, Jon had hewn the Night King apart as easily as if he were slicing through air. A great shock had rippled through the battlefield, knocking down every creature living and undead. When the smoke and snow settled, only the living arose.

The victory hadn’t been complete. There were losses. Not as many as there would have been, thanks to Gendry’s work at the forge with the dragonglass, but enough so that the future was looking uncertain. The armies of Cersei Lannister were on the move, just as Arya had feared they would be, and the men fighting for the north were injured and battle-weary.

“Do not make me regret sharing this information with you, Arya,” Jon said. “I want you here in Winterfell for the moment, not skulking about in King’s Landing wearing someone else’s face.”

“I won’t,” Arya promised. And she really did mean it. Although throwing a wrench in Jon’s plan for dealing with the wight walkers had ultimately been successful, she knew it was only because she’d been extremely lucky. If Gendry hadn’t been there with her, if Jon hadn’t come at just the right time, the scales could have tipped the other way and all would have been lost. It had been foolish and rash, and although Arya was no longer Faceless, it still stung knowing they would have berated her for her mistakes.

But as ashamed as she was for how sloppy her plan had been, she was even more ashamed of how it had affected those around her. She had been so focused on her goal that she hadn’t taken into account anyone else. And now Gendry was scarred and withered and Jon’s trust in her had been broken. Knowing this hurt worse than any of her wounds.

“Good,” he said. “Because Queen Daenerys admires your courage and would appreciate having you around in the future.”

“Only the Queen?” Arya asked. 

“Perhaps the King as well,” Jon replied.

“So you’re still going through with the wedding?” Arya asked. This time, there was no fury in her voice. Only acceptance.

“I am,” Jon answered. “When the battle with Cersei is over and King’s Landing is taken.”

“Jon Stark, first of his name,” Arya mused. “Has a nice ring to it.”

She smiled at her brother. He didn’t smile back.

“Actually,” he said with a bit of trepidation. “Jon Targaryen.”

“You’re taking her name?” Arya asked in disbelief. “Why?”

Hadn’t Jon always wanted to be a Stark? Now that he was finally and truly their father’s heir it made no sense for him to take her name.

“I’m not taking  _ her  _ name,” Jon explained. “I’m taking  _ my _ name. My true name--or part of it. I can’t get used to the Aegon bit.”

And then Jon explained to her what he’d been told from both his brother Bran and Samwell Tarly. He told her the true story of Lyanna Stark’s abduction, of her secret marriage to Rhaegar Targaryen, of the babe that was born in the Tower of Joy that Eddard Stark took in as his own baseborn son. They had been lied to--they all had--in order to protect Jon from Robert Baratheon’s fury. It was a lot to take in.

“This changes nothing,” Jon said as Arya sat silently processing what she’d been told. “You are still my little sister, as is Sansa. And Bran is my brother and Eddard, my father. I was raised as a Stark and nothing will take that away from me. The North will always be my home and my lineage will not change that.”

“But Jon,” Arya said slowly. “That means… Daenerys is your aunt. You’re marrying your  _ aunt _ .”

Jon winced.

“The thought had occurred to me,” he admitted. “It isn’t ideal, but necessary. The Targaryens long practiced sibling marriages; at least it isn’t  _ that _ . And I already gave my word.”

“That was before you knew,” Arya said. “Isn’t there some other way?”

Yet even as she asked it, she knew there wasn’t. If she hadn’t known this herself, Jon’s silence was answer enough. Daenerys had been accustomed to the practice of incest and so the marriage didn’t seem to bother her. Jon, while not thrilled at the closeness of their familial relationship, had already fallen in love with the Dragon Queen. And once he’d given his word, it was his bond. The Targaryens would marry each other as their ancestors had before them. 

“Well,” she said. “I wish you both happiness.”

………………………………………………………………

Gendry had taken to working in his forge again. He hated knowing there was still a battle to be fought and armor and weapons that needed mending. There were boys and men working in the forge to complete these tasks, but Gendry hated sitting idle while recovering. So he’d taken up the hammer again. Nothing too strenuous, but just enough that he felt he was being useful and wouldn’t let his skill go to waste.

“You’re not meant to be doing that,” Arya said, catching him as he beat an arrowhead to a sharp point.

Walking was easier for her now. Going up and down stairs no longer tired her, so she had taken to visiting Gendry again whenever she could. She still hadn’t figured out a way to repay him for saving her life, so she spent more and more time around him, hoping an idea would come to her.

“I know,” Gendry replied, never once stopping his hammering. “But if I don’t do something, I’ll lose my mind. I won’t sit here being useless when there’s work to be done.”

“That  _ is _ a highborn’s job,” Arya said with a smirk.

“Precisely,” Gendry agreed.

Arya  paced around about the forge, picking up tools and idly examining them as Gendry rhythmically pounded away with his hammer.

“Stop that,” he said. “You look like you’re doing marching drills. This isn’t the drill yard. It’s making me nervous.”

She rolled her eyes. but took a seat at an empty stool and waited for him to toss the arrowhead in a bucket of water to cool.

“You should rest a bit,” she said when he was finished. “You’ll overwork yourself.”

“I won’t,” he answered, grabbing at another scrap of metal. “These arrowheads are easy. And my arm is getting less sore every day the more I work.”

That was true at least. His body seemed to be filling out again under all of his furs, although he still walked with a slight hunch. She wondered briefly if he’d ever be able to straighten it out again. The thought of him covered with arrows briefly flashed through her mind and she bit at her lip nervously.

“Gendry,” she said. “Please?”

He ran the scrap of metal through his fingers a few times, his face screwing up momentarily in thought. Then put the metal down, crossed his arms across the apron on his chest and leaned against his anvil.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked. 

“I’m not thinking about anything,” Arya lied.

“You’re biting your lip,” he said. “You always do that when you’re thinking of something.”

Arya immediately stopped, cursing herself for not realizing her tell.

“Alright, I am thinking about something,” Arya conceded. “Come, let’s take a walk. It’s too stuffy in here.”

Gendry hesitated. 

“You sure it’s a good idea to go off somewhere with me?” he asked. “What if your brother comes looking for you?”

“We’re not going far,” Arya said. “I told him I wouldn’t leave again and I meant it. Now stop looking for excuses to keep overworking yourself. Grab your cloak and come with me.”

Gendry removed his apron, shuffled over to the back room of the forge where he kept his belongings, and donned his cloak and gloves. Then he followed Arya out into the cold.

Arya had no particular place in mind to go for her walk. She had only suggested the walk as a distraction. After they’d walked in silence for a few seconds, she spoke up.

“You know you can sleep in the castle,” she said. “There are plenty of rooms to pick from. You could have a real bed instead of that cot.”

“The forge is fine for me,” he said. “It’s warm there.”

“It’s warm in the castle too,” Arya said. “There are pipes that pump up water from the hot springs into the walls. And if that isn’t enough, there are fireplaces in every bedchamber. It would be much more comfortable than the forge.”

“It might,” he agreed. “But I still think it’s best if I stay where I am.”

Arya stopped and turned on him with a set jaw.

“Why?” she asked.

Gendry looked uncomfortable.

“I’m happy to stay here and serve you and your family,” he said. “Your brother the King is just and fair and treats me kindly--maybe too kindly considering how I almost got you killed. But when the war is over and he stays in King’s Landing, I won’t fool myself into thinking things will be the same here. I’ll be right back in the forge the moment he leaves. It wouldn’t be proper otherwise.”

“Oh,  _ fuck _ proper,” Arya swore. Gendry knew her too well to appear scandalized at her language.

“This is wartime,” he explained. “Things change during wartime. But they’ll change right back after the King sues for peace, no matter what his intentions are. Jon has a noble heart and maybe Queen Daenerys does too, but the other highborns? I think they’ll fight him tooth and nail once he starts making them feel less than mighty. I don’t think the Northern lords will like a bastard blacksmith living in a castle among princesses.”

“A princess whose life you saved,” Arya countered. “While you were fighting to save the whole of Westeros.”

“Even so,” Gendry said. “A bastard is a bastard.”

“A bastard is their king,” Arya said.

“He’s not…” But Gendry stopped himself and looked at Arya guiltily.

“Jon told me,” she said. “I know he isn’t really a bastard, but people will still call him that. And they thought he was a bastard when they elected him king.”

Gendry silently started walking forward again. Arya grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

“Things are getting better for bastards,” she said. “They’re becoming trueborn lords.”

“Not me,” he said.

And then the idea came to her.

“It could be you,” she said. “Your father was a lord. He was a king.”

“My father killed the Queen’s brother and stole his crown,” he said. “I don’t think she will want to restore the Baratheon line. I’m surprised she hasn’t fed me to her dragons yet.”

Gendry did have a point.

“You don’t have to be a Baratheon,” she said. “You could be a Waters and still live better. Or you could even be knighted--for real this time. What did they call you in the Brotherhood? Hollow something?”

“Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill,” he said, embarrassed.

“Hollowhill.” Arya said enticingly. “Gendry Hollowhill.  _ Lord _ Gendry Hollowhill.”

Gendry stopped and screwed up his face, actually considering it for a second. But he shook his head.

“I’d be shit at it,” he said. “I know my courtesies, but I don’t know anything about being lord of a castle. Lord of anything.”

“You wouldn’t be doing it alone,” Arya said. “You’d have advisors. Jon could help you a bit. Ser Davos too. Stannis made him a lord. I’d be there as well.”

“You’ll be here in Winterfell,” Gendry said. “And I can’t be a lord in a castle if you’re here in Winterfell. I told you I wouldn’t leave.”

Arya groaned. He was being so stupid.

“Gendry, I know you feel guilty about leaving me,” she said. “And I appreciate the loyalty, I do, but you don’t have to do this. You’ve done so much for the North, for my family, and for  _ me _ . You deserve better than a cot in a forge!”

Gendry didn’t answer her. Instead, he dropped his eyes down to his wrist where Arya was still holding it. Suddenly self conscious, she let his arm go. Her cheeks began to burn ever so slightly.

“I never thanked you for saving me,” she said. “Not properly anyway. Sansa told me you were hurt badly in the process.”

Gendry began to shrug it off, but she cut him off.

“Don’t,” she said. “You’re still recovering like I am. It must have been bad or else you’d have been fully healed by now.”

It was Gendry’s turn to lower his eyes.

“I’ll never be able to repay you for saving my life,” she continued. “And for almost dying while doing it. But I can help make your life better now and in the future. You won’t have to work yourself to the bone in order to get your next meal, you’ll always have a warm home in the wintertime, and only the King could tell you what to do. You wouldn’t be anyone’s servant anymore.”   


“You don’t have to…” he began, but Arya cut him off again.

“I know I don’t,” she said. “But I  _ want _ to. Promise me you’ll think on it-- truly think on it.”

Gendry nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll think on it.”

“Good,” Arya said, the pink tinge still present on her cheeks. She was suddenly feeling antsy, like continuing to stand there with him would lead to something she would much rather avoid.

“Come on,” she said, stepping forward briskly. “It’s getting cold. Let’s finish our walk then I’ll let you alone until the midday meal.”

“That’s only in an hour or two,” Gendry pointed out.

“Well then you’d better stop dawdling there if you want to have any time to work between now and then,” she called out over her shoulder.

Gendry stood in place for a few moments, an inscrutable look on his face. 

“Would I have to go to another castle?” he called out to her. “If I were a lord.”

Arya stopped and turned around, confused.

“I suppose I would have a castle,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have to stay there all the time, would I?”

“Not all the time,” she conceded. “Not if you didn’t want to. But why wouldn’t you want to?”

Gendry took a few steps forward so that he could catch up to her. Then he stopped and looked up around at snow falling around them.

“I like Winterfell,” he said finally. “I like the people here and I like the castle. And I’d like to see those warm rooms. What if I like it here better than whatever castle I were to get as a lord?”

“There would always be a room for you here,” Arya said. “You know there would be.”

Gendry hummed noncommittally. 

“I’ll think on it,” he finally said. “Now come along before the King thinks I’ve made off with you again.”


	7. Day 7- Treading Water

Jon and Daenerys marched their armies to Cersei a lot sooner than anyone would have liked. Sansa even traveled down south with them, assuming command of the armies of the Vale. This left Arya in charge as the Lady of Winterfell. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

The castle was left with a bare-bones staff; mostly men, women, and children who were too weak to fight. The flurry activity of the weeks before had ceased altogether, leaving the atmosphere feeling too-empty and tense all at once.

Gendry was among those who had stayed behind once the armies left. He had begun to recover his strength, but he insisted he was still too weak to fight. Arya could tell that he was lying, but she didn’t press him on the matter; she was thankful someone had stayed behind to keep her company. Her brother Bran remained in the castle as well, but he spent long hours either at the godswood or sitting by his fire. He was only willing to go so far when it came to carrying on a conversation. Gendry was a welcome presence in the near-empty keep.

Arya had even convinced him to move his quarters into one of the spare rooms instead of sleeping at the forge. He had tried to protest, saying he was uncomfortable in his large room, but Arya had spied him more than once marveling at the warmth radiating from Winterfell’s walls, and she hadn’t failed to notice that he seemed to be taking advantage of the ability to take hot baths as well. He had never smelled so clean in his life.

“I do hope you’re saving water for the rest of us,” she teased him one day.

He had shot her an annoyed look in reply, which had only made her laugh. He seemed to be doing well in the castle environment, which pleased her. Hopefully it meant he was seriously considering the offer she’d made him. Whenever she tried to broach the subject with him, he would clam up, or suddenly remember he had something to attend to. It was infuriating.

_ What’s it to me if he chooses to become a lord or not? _ Arya asked herself.  _ I’ve done what I can. If he turns it down, he’s stupid and it isn’t my concern. _

Except it was. 

“Things change during wartime. But they’ll change right back after the King sues for peace,” he’d told her. 

She’d argued with him at the time, but the more she thought about it, the more anxious she grew that he might have been right. Arya knew much of the way of the world, but so did Gendry, and he wasn't stupid. While he hadn’t known much beyond the life of a blacksmith and a fugitive, he had plenty of experience with the way highborns treated lowborns. Arya might be able to get away with her willfulness, thanks to her blood, but Gendry wouldn’t be able to do the same. Not really.

She’d grown used to him again. It was as if all the years they spent apart hadn’t happened. There was no sense of urgency or danger like there had been when they were on the run, but the camaraderie was there. Arya treated Gendry as if he were an equal, and Gendry (if there were no other highborns around) treated her the same. She liked that he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind around her. 

Since she had come back to Winterfell, everyone avoided her as if she were some wild, monstrous thing. Granted, she hadn’t done much to assuage those fears; she had calmly slit Petyr Baelish’s throat in the middle of the Great Hall. Arya was less gregarious and more observant now as a woman grown, and that frightened many of the people who had known her as a girl. 

But not Gendry. He was worried that he had angered her, but he was never afraid that she was going to snap into a murderous rage. He didn’t treat her any differently than he had when they were relying on each other for survival as children, and she liked that. His constance was helping her deal with the changes in Winterfell. He was a calming presence that helped to keep her grounded (although she didn’t always heed his advice) and the thought of that disappearing when the war was over worried her.

She was mulling this over as they sat in the Great Hall at the midday meal. Since the castle was so sparsely populated, Arya had abandoned the high table in favor of eating a more intimate meal with the remaining inhabitants of the castle. Gendry had been sitting across from her, joking with one of the apprentice blacksmiths as he walked by when Arya had been hit with this realization. She swirled her spoon in the rabbit stew she had been eating and bit at her lip.

“Are you worried about Jon?” Gendry asked, pulling her out of her reverie. 

Arya furrowed her brow in confusion for a moment, before shaking her head.

“No,” she said. “Well, yes. But not at this particular moment.”

“Is there something else troubling you, then?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so,” she answered carefully, still staring into her stew. “I can’t… I don’t know how to quite put it into words yet, though.”

Gendry only looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

“I think,” she said, pushing her stew bowl aside. “I would like to speak with my brother.”

Gendry began to wolf down his remaining stew, assuming she would ask him to accompany her as she had been of late.

“Don’t,” she said, laying a hand on his wrist, stilling the hand holding the spoon. “Take your time and enjoy your stew. I think I would like to speak with Bran alone.”

“Of course,” Gendry answered. She couldn’t help but notice that he looked a little disappointed as he dropped his spoon back into his bowl a little too forcefully to be natural.

“I’ll come find you after I speak with him,” Arya said. “So don’t go far.”

………………………………………………………

Bran’s room was always a little warmer than she liked. His fire was blazing and he was covered from neck to ankle in furs. She supposed it was because he couldn’t walk around for warmth, but she was always a little uncomfortable when she came up to visit him.

“Arya,” he said as she entered his chambers, not even bothering to turn away from his fire. “I was expecting this particular visit a lot sooner.”

Arya didn’t bother to ask what he meant. Bran was strange now, but she’d come to accept that he knew things he shouldn’t have been able to know. Arya had seen stranger things at the House of Black and White, so she wasn’t as disturbed as Sansa or Jon was with this newfound ability of his.

“You can see the past and you can see the present,” Arya said. “But can you see the future?”

Bran looked up from the fire and into his sister’s eyes. 

“I see only what the green dreams show me,” he said.

“Do they show you the future?” Arya asked.

“Bits and pieces,” he answered. “But the future is uncertain. The present can change so much about it. I cannot see the answer you seek. I do not know your blacksmith’s future.”

Arya frowned.

“Can you at least try?” she asked. “I don’t want to know much. I just… I need to know what he chooses.”

Bran looked at his sister with pity in his eyes. It was the most emotion he had shown since Arya had come home.

“I promise nothing,” he said. “But I will try.”

He settled back into his chair, unfocusing his eyes as he did so. After a second or two, Arya could see the change: he blinked and his eyes became a pure, milky white. His body was still except for the soft flutter of his lids as he looked through all of space and time. And then, just as suddenly as the change began, he blinked and his eyes were clear again. He frowned at his sister and shook his head apologetically. Arya was crestfallen.

“Thank you for trying,” she said. And she sat in the chair opposite him and worried at her bottom lip.

They sat in amicable silence for a long while, Bran’s eyes cryptically unfocused in the fire, and Arya’s focused on her feet as her thoughts ran wild. She hated not knowing if she and Gendry would be able to continue their friendship. And she hated how invested she was in the knowing of it. She’d lost many friends since she was a girl, mostly to death. Why did the possibility of losing him seem so much worse?

“You know,” Bran said softly. “When my thoughts are unclear, I find it helpful to visit the Godswood. The trees often share their wisdom when you least expect it.”

“Would you like me to take you?” Arya asked, standing up.

“No,” Bran answered. “But I think a walk there might calm your mind.”

Arya frowned.

“The old gods never gave me answers before,” she said.

Bran smiled. “Perhaps you weren’t truly listening, then.”

………………………………………………………

The quiet of the Godswood was different from the quiet of Winterfell. The castle’s silence came from emptiness; the Godswood’s silence was pregnant with history, the sacred, and memories of Arya’s past. Her father used to come to the woods to pray, and although her mother made sure she was raised venerating the Seven, Arya would sometimes come to pray with him. As little use as Arya had for the old gods or the new, she still felt a little bit of reverence walking through the bone-white weirwoods.

“You old gods,” she said, almost to herself as she crunched through the snow on the way to the Heart Tree in the center of the wood. “My brother seems to think you can help me. You had--”

She stopped in her tracks. She’d heard a splash. Then a grunt of frustration and another splash. Someone was in the wood aside from her.

She briefly entertained the idea of removing her boots so that she could travel more silently through the snow as she approached, but thought better of it. Whoever was here couldn’t have been an enemy. And they were making far too much noise to notice her approach. She softened her step, stealing quietly through the trees until she came upon the visitor to the Heart Tree.

“Gendry?”

He yelped in shock, sending the stone he had just tossed sailing into the water with a loud plop.

“Seven hells, Arya,” he swore. “You really need to start walking like a normal person.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Bran must have seen that Gendry was in the Godswood. So why would he send her there to clear her mind?

“Nothing,” Gendry answered. “I had no duties at the forge, so I took a walk. I ended up here. I didn’t expect you to be back so soon. Did talking to your brother help?”

“No,” she said, walking up to the water’s edge to stand next to him. She leaned down to pick up a stone and successfully skipped it across the pool on her first try. “Bran told me to come here to listen to the old gods.”

“Are they saying anything?”

“If they are, I can’t hear them,” she answered with a sigh.

Gendry hummed noncommittally. He picked up a pebble and tried again, unsuccessfully, to skip it across the surface of the pool.

“The trick is to flick your wrist,” Arya said, picking up a stone herself. “Like this.”

Stopping to show him how she held her wrist, she sent the stone skipping across the pool like she had before. Gendry furrowed his brow, trying his best to mimic what Arya had shown him. Arya couldn’t help but laugh at his frustration.

“Oh, shut up,” he said, trying and failing yet again. “You’ve had more practice than me.”

“Well, try again,” Arya said. “Like this.”

Gendry frowned as he tried. And tried again. And tried yet again. Finally, on his seventh try, the stone skipped once before splashing into the water.

“Ha!” he cried triumphantly. “Did you see that?”

He turned to face Arya, but as he twisted, he lost his footing on a stray weirwood root. The Godswood pool, though small, were surprisingly deep, and like the stones before him, Gendry splashed into the water, flailing his arms wildly as he did so. The pools were fed by hot springs deep beneath the earth, so although it was freezing outside, the water here in the Godswood was pleasantly warm.

Arya doubled over in laughter as Gendry splashed around. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. He was making a big show of struggling in the water, possibly to cheer her up. It was working..

“Stop messing around,” she said, when she’d finally gotten herself under control. “Come out of there so we can get you in warmer clothes.”

Gendry didn’t answer. Instead, he only continued to flail, moving further and further away in his effort. The thought suddenly flashed in Arya’s mind that maybe he couldn’t swim.

“Gendry?” she called out.

“Arya!” he called out. “I can’t--”

The last word of his sentence was cut off as his head sank beneath the water.

“ _ Seven hells _ ,” Arya swore, stripping off the cloak she was wearing and as much of her clothing as she dared. 

She dove into the pool, chasing the bubbles drifting up to the surface where he’d gone under. The water was murky and the sulfur stung at her eyes as she searched for Gendry’s form. She saw him, clawing toward the surface, sinking like a stone. Quick as a fish, she shot forward and hooked her arms under his armpits.

He was heavy, weighed down by his furs and muscle, and he fought her every step of the way in his panic, but Arya was a strong swimmer from her time in Braavos. Her lungs burned and her limbs ached, but slowly, she made her way up to the surface of the pool and managed to drag him to the water’s edge.

“Breathe, stupid,” she pleaded. Gendry had stopped moving at some point during the ascent and Arya feared the worst.

Her fingers fumbled and went numb as she struggled to undo his cloak and belt.She searched his face, shivering as she did so. His chest didn’t appear to be moving.

There was a way to pump water from the lungs. The maesters used to call it the kiss of life. She had seen it performed a few times, although she’d never done it herself. She knew it involved breathing air in while pumping water out. It appeared easy enough and Arya was desperate. 

Without hesitation, she placed her mouth on Gendry and blew in a big gulp of air. Then she began to pump at his chest, one, two three, four times. She repeated her actions, blowing in air and pumping, one, two, three, four. It seemed to go on for hours: breathe, pump, breathe, pump. Arya’s eyes were stinging and she couldn’t tell if it was from the sulfur, the cold, or something else.

Finally, Gendry stirred. He opened his eyes and spit up a mouthful of water. Arya pushed herself away as he rolled on his side to cough. A wave of relief washed over her and it was all she could do to keep from flinging herself at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t swim, stupid,” she asked, her voice shaking as she wrapped her arms around herself.

“Didn’t think it was important,” Gendry croaked, his voice raw from all the coughing.

Arya could have hit him. Instead she only laughed. A thin, shaky thing that grew into something a little more hysterical. And then she was sobbing. She didn’t know when the change had happened, but it had. And there she was, crying like she was some scared little girl again.

“Arya, I’m okay,” Gendry said, pushing himself up. He put his hands on her shoulders to try and calm her and Arya leaned forward into his arms, surprisingly them both.

“I’m not, stupid,” she choked out, pressing her face against his chest. “I thought… I thought I’d killed you.”

She’d killed plenty of people in her seventeen years, but had she succeeded with this one, it would have broken her. 

“You didn’t,” Gendry said, cradling her in his arms. Arya had never given a thought to being held like this, especially not by Gendry. She thought it would have been more awkward, but at the moment, all she could do was cling to him like her life depended on it. “You saved me.”

Arya didn’t answer, instead, pressing herself even closer to him. She’d almost lost him a third time and she didn’t ever want to let go. It was only then that she realized the full magnitude of what that meant. She had been tiptoeing around her feelings for a while, and it had only just hit her that she’d even been doing it in the first place.

“Gendry,” she said with a sniff, pulling herself away from him to look in his eyes. “You have to take that lordship.”

Gendry frowned in confusion.

“What?”

“You have to take it,” she said. “Or I’ll lose you. After the war, they’ll want me to be a lady again. The realm is in tatters. Half the great houses are gone. They’ll need me to make a political marriage. Jon won’t ask me to, but he’ll need it all the same. I’ll have to leave Winterfell and you’ll be here alone in the forge. Whoever I marry won’t let you come with me.”

Gendry’s jaw was set and his mouth was a thin white line.

“I don’t want to you to leave me again,” she continued. “And I don’t want to leave you. Not after everything you’ve done for me. Not after I just got you back.”

“If I’m a lord, they’ll want me to marry too,” Gendry said.

“They will,” she agreed. “But I’ll do it. I’ll marry you.”

Gendry blinked, taken aback. Arya felt her stomach drop.

“Or Sansa could,” she said, dropping her eyes, her cheeks burning in shame. Perhaps she’d completely misread his loyalty to her. And this feeling she had toward him was only one sided.

“I won’t marry Sansa,” he said firmly. “Arya, look at me.”

She raised her eyes to his. His eyes were blue and shining and staring right into hers.

“I’d be a shit lord,” he said. “And probably just as bad as a husband. I wouldn’t know how to run a castle or treat a highborn lady wife.”

Arya felt herself trembling again. She tried to pull away from Gendry so he wouldn’t feel it, but he held her tightly.

“I can’t read, I can’t write, and I certainly can’t rule,” he continued. “The only thing I’m good for is swinging a hammer. You deserve to marry someone who won’t embarrass you in front of all your household.”

Gendry now looked just as flustered as Arya. His face was grim, and Arya could read it as plain as day. He wanted her. He always had. But he was resigned to the fact that he couldn’t have her. If she married a lord, he would rage, but keep it to himself so that he could stay near her side as long as he could. Her stupid, self-sacrificing bull.

“If I don’t marry you, I won’t marry anyone,” she said. “I don’t want a fancy lord. I want a blacksmith who can’t read or write or rule. But he can swing a hammer and fight. And he won’t leave me again. Not ever.”

Gendry swallowed nervously, but repeated:  “Not ever.”

A man could learn to read and write. He could even learn to rule. But decency and bravery? That’s something you had to be born to. And although he was bastard born, Gendry was far nobler than any highborn Arya had ever met. And three times as brave.

Their first kiss was awkward and uncomfortable. They were soaking wet, freezing in the snow around them. Gendry was half-lying on a weirwood root which was poking him sharply in the lower back, and Arya’s limbs had begun to cramp from the all the swimming she’d done. But even so, they were loath to break away. It was terrible and wonderful and perfect all at once and Arya couldn’t for the life of her think of why they hadn’t done this sooner.

The future was still uncertain. They might lose the battle with Cersei Lannister. They might have to work hard to convince Jon to let them marry. They would definitely face the judgment and scorn of other highborns who wouldn’t understand. But when they broke apart and searched each other’s faces, all of that fell to the wayside. There was only happiness and relief. Gendry broke out into a grin just as Arya did and their lips met again.


End file.
